


These unsure hands

by gloss



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Grief, Hand Jobs, Incest, Multi, baby's first OT3, bed sharing, post-TFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:38:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6233590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke comes back to her bed. Post-film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These unsure hands

**Author's Note:**

> for "bed sharing" on my trope_bingo card; title from [Sebadoh, "Together or Alone"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LgkkGHLsHwE).

Luke comes to her bed that night. He has only been back with them for less than a week, but she should have gone to him sooner. She's been waiting so long, it has become inertial, inhibiting. This is not the person she used to be, and it's far from the person she needs to be.

But right now, she's getting a little closer. He's heavier, thicker, than he used to be, and the bed dips under him when she pulls back the blanket. She isn't thinking of Ben after a bad dream, crawling up between her and Han; she isn't thinking of Han, in the early days, stumbling into her bunk, noisier than seemed possible. She isn't even thinking of Luke himself, hovering at the foot of the bunk, waiting for Han to reach for him, pull him between them, snarl at him to get on with it.

She's just making room for Luke and gathering him in against her.

They lie on their sides, facing each other, two halves closing the whole. They must have done this before birth, suspended in that other, much warmer, safer kind of space. Floating then, never falling.

His hand rests heavy on her hip; she cups his cheek, strokes his beard, then combs her fingers through his rough, tangled hair. His hair used to be silky, far finer, so much prettier than her own.

"Should we take care of this?" she asks, working her knuckles through a knot.

"Take care of what?" he asks. Maybe he had been dozing, because his voice is thick. 

His eyes open and track over her face. Leia holds herself still, lets him look, lets him in.

Her hand tightens in his hair, without her quite meaning to. At the tug, his gaze drops, then his eyes close. He opens his mouth to speak, but she shakes her head. 

"Don't," she tells him. "I know."

She knows he's sorry. She's sorry, too, more than anyone (except him) can know. They're _all_ sorry. They have to start doing something other, something more, than being so sorry.

_Here, kid, let me take care of this_ : Han might as well be in the room with them, she can hear him so clearly. Luke lifts his head a little, smiling behind the beard. 

"Did you hear that?" she whispers. She feels like a girl again, telling scary stories long after lights out.

Luke nods. "I...thought it," he says. "Or remembered it."

"So did I," Leia says, and there are tears now, hot and bright, blurring her vision.

"He loved us," Luke whispers but it's a moment before she understands he's made it into a question.

"Of course," she tells him, touching his beard again, learning the new planes and curves of his face. He clutches at her, nails in the fabric of her dressing gown, and tugs her closer.

She can feel his erection against her thigh, and the wet warmth of his tears and his mouth on her neck. 

"You know that he did," she says. "You _know_."

Luke tips back his head. The low light from the refresher catches the tears in his eyes and they shine. They shine like they once did.

When she kisses him, Luke's lips lock together. His hand tugs on her gown, spasmodically, before he opens his mouth and kisses her back. He kisses with his entire body, surging at her, into her, rolling her onto her back.

There's so much room _around_ them; it was never like this, not with Han grumbling and taking up space and complaining and petting them like pedigreed pittins he never wanted to stop touching.

He took up _so much_ , space and air and attention. She and Luke orbited him, bright and dark, holding hands while he ran wild. 

Without him, the bed is huge, cold and empty. She has Luke in her hand, and he's grinding against her grip, his mouth on hers, and all Leia can do is love him back, and hold him here, and feel the cold all around.

When he's still, spent, heaving against her, she wipes her hand on the sheet before wrapping her arms around him. She tucks his head against her shoulder and closes her eyes to the dark.

They were separated for so long, and then again, and she can't see how long they have together this time.


End file.
